


Before Gods and Men

by junsnow



Series: A Feast of Kinks [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brief Mention of Blood, Cousin Incest, Exhibitionism, F/M, Jonsa Kink Week, PWP, Sansa enjoys this way more than she expected, Smut, Yes I realize the stupid ritual makes no sense, it’s a fucking smut fic relax, jonsakinkweek, they have to fuck in front of the old gods and a bunch of ppl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 02:32:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13603698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junsnow/pseuds/junsnow
Summary: It was all for the Old Gods, the gods of the North. The ancient trees would bear witness to them tonight, and protect them on the morrow, when their enemy’s attack would be nigh. […]All around the sacred place, the North gathered to watch their King and Queen perform the old ritual that would save them all—to watch them fuck in front of the heart tree.-Day 7: Exhibitionism.





	Before Gods and Men

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is it, folks! It has been a pleasure (pun intended) to write for Kink Week. Hope you all enjoyed it. Thank you Lizzie for organizing it!

Sansa stepped out into the courtyard, her thin white gown doing nothing to protect her from the cold. She felt shivers course through her when she thought about what she was about to do—what _they_ were about to do. Jon was waiting for her by the entrance of the godswood.

 

He looked somber, as did she. Still, he grabbed her hand, squeezing tightly as he searched her eyes. There was no hesitation to be found, yet he asks all the same.

 

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

 

For once, she wishes Jon weren’t so considerate. It made everything that much harder, that he would give her this opening, when they both knew it was pointless.

 

She nods, resolutely, and they press forward, hands linked.

 

***

 

It was all for the Old Gods, the gods of the North. The ancient trees would bear witness to them tonight, and protect them on the morrow, when their enemy’s attack would be nigh. All it took was a small sacrifice. A ritual of flesh, blood and unity from the Starks of Winterfell. As Lord and Lady of this castle and rulers of the North, this duty fell to Jon and Sansa—they would be wed, and would consummate their vows in front of the gods, and the blood of Sansa’s maidenhead would appease them and earn their favor.

 

Of course, the trees were not the only witnesses. All around the sacred place, the North gathered to watch their King and Queen perform the old ritual that would save them all—to watch them fuck in front of the heart tree. It should throw her off, _terrify_ her, but Sansa felt nothing short of euphoric. Her entire body was tingling with the prospect of having her maidenhead taken by Jon in front of the whole North.

 

As soon as she agreed to the ritual—earlier, even, when she learned what she and Jon would have to do to protect their people, Sansa could think of little else. She would touch herself at night, counting down the days, imagining him moving above her, her nimble fingers worrying her little bundle of nerves and distracting her aching cunt from what she really wanted—Jon’s cock, which she would soon have inside her out in the open air. She wanted it so bad it hurt.

 

She wasn’t sure if it was just _Jon_ —if the thought of having him under any circumstance was enough to unhinge her so, or if this specific scenario unlocked something deep inside her, something twisted and depraved she had tried to bury away.

 

Guilt ate at her, that she would be so wanton as to actively wish for this, when Jon probably saw it as a great burden, a sin that would forever stain his honor, even if it was all for the gods and the good of the people. She tried not to dwell on how her parents would react if they were here. Her mother’s heart would stop, surely, to the very idea of having the bastard of Winterfell disgrace her eldest daughter in such a public way. Still, Sansa shivered with anticipation for what they were about to do.

 

***

 

Hand in hand, they reach the clearing in the godswood, where the great weirwood is located, and the people surround them quietly from around the trees—not a single voice could heard.

 

Kneeling by the carved face of the heart tree, side by side, they recite their wedding vows. The ominous face trickles with red sap, much like her own blood would trickle down soon, seeping into the earth to feed the roots of the trees and the gods themselves.

 

They rise as one, fingers still entwined. Jon brings her face close to his and lays a gentle kiss on her lips. It’s sweet, and it warms her heart, but it’s not even close to what she wants from him—she slips her tongue inside his mouth, grabs the back of his neck and brings her body flush against his. Jon is taken aback for a moment, opening his mouth further for her. He settles his hands tightly at her waist then, and Sansa uses the steadiness of his grip to grind her hips against his.

 

Jon breaks them apart to suck in a lungful of air, so Sansa uses the opportunity to gather the hem of her gown and pull it over her head. There is nothing underneath. She sees the stunned look on his face, how he didn’t expect her to go bare in front him, much less with all the people watching them. Indeed, she didn’t have to undress at all, she could just lift her skirts to offer him her cunt, but she _wants_ to—she revels in the attention, feeling all those eyes on her, specially Jon’s, taking in her nakedness, inch by inch—it brings prickles to her skin, in a most delicious way.

 

Something flashes in his eyes, something primitive and dark, and Sansa feels herself grow wet. Jon starts to undress too, always the nobleman, so as not to leave her alone in her vulnerability; but all the while, his eyes stay fixed, pinning her with that new hungry look. She watches, enthralled, as he removes his tunic, revealing the strong, scarred chest underneath, then his breeches and smallclothes—his cock springs out, already hard and pointing up. Sansa imagines her eyes must be mirroring his, with how ravenous she feels.

 

A beat goes by as they stare at each other’s naked bodies—and then they’re rushing to close the distance between them, crushing their mouths together. His hands brush through her hair, sliding down her back until he reaches her bottom, and then he’s squeezing, enticing a moan from her lips.

 

Sansa reaches between them for his hard cock, giving an experimental stroke—Jon groans, deciding it’s time to lay them down. She goes gladly, feeling the small patch of grass that had been cleared of snow earlier for this very purpose. Jon settles above her, looking unsure all of a sudden, but Sansa won’t have it—she locks eyes with him, opening her legs wide. He breaks their gaze to look down at her womanhood, licking his lips as if he means to devour her, and she almost moans at the idea of his head between her legs.

 

Alas, that is not what they are here for, and she is sure he will taste her cunt some other time—he is her husband now, after all. The realization strikes, knocks the breath out of her, strangely arousing— _Jon is my husband. He can have me whenever he wants._

She had her doubts up until this moment, but the way he looks at her now—like a man starved being presented with a feast—settles it for her. It is nothing short of desperate, how he looks into her eyes, silently asking for permission to breach her. She nods impatiently; eager to have him inside, to have the whole world know she is _his_ at last, no one else’s.

 

His fingers touch her first, spreading the wetness he finds and making her ache with anticipation. Then, finally, he brings his cock to her entrance and pushes in. It hurts a bit, despite how wet she is, and she can feel the moment her maidenhead breaks—a slight pinch followed by a rush of fluid that can only be blood. Just as the gods required, her Stark blood trickles down the soil, painting it red.

 

Despite all this, she feels complete. Jon is inside her, filling her up so perfectly with his length—and before the night was over, he would fill her with his seed as well. Sansa reaches up to capture his full lips between hers, licking and sucking at his bottom lip; she caresses the back of his thighs with her calves, urging him to move. He does, slowly, but surely slipping out of her, only to slide back in again and again.

 

The motion elicits a moan from her, and she realizes with a pleasing jolt that their audience can hear her just as well. Her blood is rushing through her veins, thumping by her ears and making her dizzy; all she cares about is how it all feels, how Jon fucks her so sweetly, how his hands are holding her tightly, how everyone around them can see them come together as one.

 

She calls out his name; nothing more than a whimper, but the sound seems to embolden him, for his thrusts gain in vigor and speed. Sansa grasps at his back, raking her nails against his skin as he drives his cock inside her.

 

Jon pulls back suddenly, and she’s about to whine when he brings her body with him, strong arms encasing her waist and lifting as if she weighs nothing. He kneels, settling her on top of his thighs, flush against his chest, and then slides into her again. They groan in unison at the new angle, and Sansa is exhilarated by how they must look, coming together like that, for all the North to see.

 

Her moans rise in volume and frequency, and she wonders in passing if the people around them are scandalized by how wanton their Lady sounds. Sansa relishes the thought—she’s been behaving properly her entire life, but not today. Tonight she was a she-wolf, howling to the moon.

 

Sansa braces her arms around Jon’s shoulders, breathing down his neck as she starts to rock her hips to meet his upwards strokes.

 

“Jon,” she calls out again, more desperately, “ _so good_ …faster now, please… _Ah!_ ”

 

He responds to her pleas immediately, not leaving her wanting for another second; he grabs her bottom roughly and fucks her like a man possessed, with a passion that makes Sansa slip into a frenzy of her own. She feels the tension building up in her center, coiling tighter and tighter until—

 

“Cum for me, Sansa,” he rasps, “cum, my love.”

 

His fingers find her core again, reaching between them to press against her clit, and she _breaks_ —her back arches and she feels as if she’s soaring from the pleasure. Sansa has never felt so free as in that moment, screaming her release into the open sky of the godswood. When she opens her eyes, Jon is looking at her, enraptured, as if he was witnessing a miracle. She wants him to feel it, too, this heavenly pleasure; wants him to let go and spill inside her in a holy surge.

 

She squeezes harder around him, making him falter; his thrusts become erratic, until finally he peaks, shouting her name in his release. His seed floods her walls, filling her to the brim until it starts to spill out, and she feels so good, so _complete,_ in that moment, she says a silent prayer in thanks to the old gods that watched over them, that brought them together.

 

One by one, the people trickle out of the godswood, satisfied and secure in their belief that the gods would favor them on the morrow. Jon and Sansa are left alone at last—to share another kiss, in their first moment of privacy; to untangle and dress themselves, and to leave the woods as they came in, hand in hand, but now as husband and wife, blessed by the gods.


End file.
